


Broken Boys and Butterflies

by Neuron



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, And a dash of angst because I can't help myself, Impotence, Impotent Billy Hargrove, M/M, Soft Boys, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neuron/pseuds/Neuron
Summary: ‘Common side effects include nausea, headaches, insomnia, fatigue... Other common side effects include restlessness, strange dreams, dizziness, loss of appetite, confusion, weight-gain,impotence…’Valentine's day is approaching. Not that Billy cares. But Steve does so Billy will indulge him. Because they'reboyfriendsnow, y'know...Only, Billy's still dealing with a few lingering side effects from last summer and one in particular threatens to disrupt his new relationship with Steve.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 27
Kudos: 267





	Broken Boys and Butterflies

Steve wants to know if he’s free on Valentine’s day.

It’s a simple question with an equally simple answer. 

Billy is _always_ free on Valentine’s day because he’s made sure everybody knows he thinks it’s a trashy commercial holiday and he’s point-blank refused to indulge whichever girl happened to be hanging off his arm whenever the date came around. 

And Steve already knows that he won’t be busy. Valentine’s day lands on a Friday this year and the harsh bite of winter won’t allow Billy’s aching joints to survive the chilly record store on Main St for more than his contracted hours demand, which leaves him free every day asides from Mondays and Wednesdays, and after his social life took a crucial blow last summer his circle of friends now consists of the same gang of nerds and loners he mocked Steve for hanging around with throughout their senior year.

So yes. Billy is free on Valentine’s. And honestly, he’d hoped to keep it that way.

Instead of immediately answering the question, Billy takes a giant bite out of his cheeseburger, slouching down in his seat until his knees knock against Steve’s, eyes scanning over the packed parking lot outside the window to his left. He chews obnoxiously slow, tongue slithering out the chase a trickle of grease down his chin, and he shrugs ambiguously, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth and wiping it on his jeans.

Steve watches him somewhere between amused and grossed out.

“Was that a yes or a no?”

Billy shrugs again.

“Depends. What you got in mind, pretty boy?” He’s fairly sure he already knows.

Steve tilts his head thoughtfully, eyes following his fingers as they trace around the rim of his cup, and a playful smile curls on his lips. 

“Hhmm, was thinking we could go ice-skating first.” 

He keeps his voice low and hidden beneath the buzz of movement and chatter in the diner, smiles when a waitress comes over to refill their coffee, and below the table his other hand slides over Billy’s knee. “Take you out for dinner, somewhere fancy and upscale that my mom would approve of,” he starts grinning as he speaks, “get us a hotel for the night, champagne and rose petals on the bed, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds _dreamy,_ ” Billy purrs and rolls his eyes.

Steve winks. “Listen, I know how to treat my guy right.”

_My guy_.

Two little words, that’s all it take now and Billy is greeted with an uprising of all kinds of strange and tingly feelings. He’s familiar enough with lust, heated and fleeting desire pulsing in his loins and that carnal urge for hot flesh under his touch, but he’s still growing accustomed to the slower paced tenderness and passing touches of endearment that make him feel like he has butterflies bursting from within his heart and fluttering around inside his chest cavity; swirling and swooping erratically when he looks deep in warm brown eyes and feels the beat of their wings skim the back of his throat. He’s gonna choke on one of the little fuckers someday.

He’s Steve’s guy.

_Fuck._

“But seriously,” Steve is saying, completely oblivious as Billy shakes his hair to cover the pink tips of his ears. He props his elbows on the table and folds his hands together beneath his chin. “I was thinking we could just rent some movies and order in? Robin agreed to swap so I’ve got the whole evening off.”

Billy prefers the _but seriously_ option, for multiple reasons, the main one being he’d rather not receive a beatdown on the sidewalk from the open-minded folks of Hawkins, and really--does Billy look like the kind of guy who does skate-dates and _rose petals_?

“Your parents jetting off again I take it?” Billy says, dipping a fry in a lump of ketchup on his plate.

Steve hums affirmatively. “Leaving on Monday. Two weeks in Punta Cana. I actually have no idea where that is.”

“Caribbean?” Billy shrugs and Steve shrugs right back at him.

“Somewhere warm with a beach.”

“Shoulda gone to Cali.” That earns him an eye roll.

“They’ve been already, ‘said it was alright.” He drops his hands to the table, tapping his fingers. “So, are you up for it? I know Valentine’s isn’t your thing and all, but it’d be nice to see you at least. We can keep it chill, sleep over if you want…”

“You trying to get me into bed, Harrington?” 

“Well yeah obviously,” Steve smirks playfully, a sharp line of promise gleaming in his eye, and Billy feels the butterflies take a plunge—a heavy and unpleasant sensation settling in his stomach—and his knee spasms, jerking away from the ticklish brush of Steve's fingers. 

“You don’t have to, I just…” A brief glimmer of hurt shutters across his face before its pushed away and Steve gives him a lopsided grin. “We haven’t had much _privacy_ with my parents being home, I figured you'd want to take advantage of an empty house…"

A year ago Billy thought having Steve alone in that big house of his would’ve only been possible in his wildest fantasies, the ones where he didn’t smash a plate over his pretty face or Neil wasn’t a raging homophobe and Billy didn’t feel ashamed of what (or who) he wanted, and it’s surreal, _exhilarating_ , to have the opportunity gifted to him so _willingly_ , the chance to bring some of those fantasies to life, like they _should_ because they’re young and dumb, and you never know when you’re going to be tortured and drugged by Russians in a secret underground lair, or mind-fucked by an inter-dimensional shadow monstrosity that guts you once it realises you won’t do it’s evil bidding anymore and you end up losing months of your life to injury and recovery...

Life is short, y’know?

They should just _fuck_ already.

It’s what Steve thinks even if he hasn’t said it out loud. Billy knows all about King Steve’s impressive list of past conquests, sees the _ache_ and _pining_ in his eyes when another private make-out session gets interrupted; he’s no blushing virgin and neither is Billy. 

But that’s not the problem.

"No yeah, ‘course I do," Billy says, swallowing down discomfort and pushing a relaxed expression onto his face as he throws another lukewarm fry in his mouth. "Just uh…" he swallows, appetite somewhat lost, and his brow pinches when he can’t think up any reasonable excuse as to _why_ he would turn his boyfriend away on Valentine’s day without sounding like an utter asshole.

(Because he actually _tries_ not to do that anymore. Be an asshole that is. And sometimes he fucking fails at it and he winds up feeling guilty and miserable which is worse so all the more reason to _try_.)

He clears his throat. “I’ll be there sugar-lips,” he says, shooting for smooth but not quite hitting the mark.

“Great,” Steve says quietly, the faintest traces of uncertainty lingering in the air before he smothers it with a charming smile, nudging his foot against Billy’s and raising an eyebrow suggestively, “and I could still, y’know, do the rose petals on the bed if you’d like that?”

*

Steve’s a romantic. Billy figured that out _way_ before they started dating, back when he sat by Billy’s bedside in hospital and whined about being single as Robin happily narrated another one of his failed courting endeavours. And it only became more obvious after his release when they started hanging out together and Billy would probe him with super personal questions he didn’t really have the right to be asking in order to distract himself from the pain and the bad thoughts in his head, and for some reason Steve always answered them, shortly at first but more in depth once he realised how soothing his voice was for Billy’s condition. 

He told him he lost his virginity when he was fourteen to his first girlfriend—Louise Riley, a junior—and how he posted half a dozen love-notes through her locker every day for about three weeks afterwards until she dumped him for _being too clingy_. 

He told him about Nancy, how he had truly thought she was the _one_ and he hadn’t had a steady relationship since they broke up, and Billy might’ve been half gone on Vicodin but the wistful tone that rang in his voice was as clear as day.

He told him he loved Robin but not like _that_ , and they once went on a fake-date together and got fifty-percent discount on their food by pretending they were celebrating their one-year anniversary. 

_“It was fun y’know? Pretending we weren’t sad and lonely for one night,”_ he’d said, laughing at the memory, _“I bought her a bouquet and everything.”_

He told him about lots of _girls_ and dates and hook-ups and Billy sometimes wished he’d never asked because they were closer than ever thought possible and yet King Steve had never felt so unattainable.

And then somehow Billy strolled into 1986 with a boyfriend, his _bisexual_ boyfriend Steve who wants to do all kinds of that romantic shit with him.

Except he can’t. _They_ can’t. Hold hands in public or go on _real_ dates. And it tears Billy up more than he likes to admit knowing can’t give Steve all those things he desperately wants; that their relationship is kept secret from the world outside of a trusted few and there’s a part of themselves they have to hold back for their own safety.

Steve kisses his lips and tells him he doesn’t care, that Billy—who he is and everything they share—is enough for him and Billy fucking _melts_ under his gaze, so soft and fond, the butterflies in his chest descending into chaos, and for the first time since Starcourt, or maybe even since his mom left, Billy actually feels hopeful again. Even with his baggage and his scars he is wanted, he is _desired_.

And that’s just fucking terrifying really. Having something to lose again. It’s different from Max, his fierce stubborn bitch of a sister who he _loves_ , or El, who he shares an unusual yet unbreakable bond with, or even the brats who he routinely reminds that they _have_ to like him because _“I died for you, okay?”_ and they don’t argue with Max and El flanking his sides.

Steve’s an adult, well in a _legal_ sense anyway, he’s not tied down by school or health or restrictive parents, and if he actually puts his brain to good use Billy knows he’ll find better _opportunities_ out in the world one day.

Especially once he realizes that Billy can’t… that there are _other things_ Billy can’t give him.

He’s scared to lose this. And yet he doesn’t think he could handle going back to just being Steve’s friend either; not since Steve cupped the back of his head on January 1st on the back porch of the Byers’ house with fireworks going off in the sky and Billy tasted euphoria on the lips of someone he thought he could never have. 

It’s Steve’s company he pines after the most. His face who appears in Billy’s dreams, his voice the one he hears on his bad days—reminding him to unclench and _breath_.

And it’s his name ringing like a plea off his lips when his hand ventures south during the still and silent hours of night.

He thinks about touching Steve all the time. Experimenting with caresses both gentle and rough, exploring pale, warm flesh with his hands and his lips—the trail of wet kisses he’ll leave cooling over his mouth, his neck, down his chest. The noises he imagines spilling off Steve’s tongue send a thrill of delight directly to his cock and he pretends it’s Steve touching him—long fingers curling around his dick, rubbing his thumb along the slit and flicking his wrist in a way that only another guy would know how—and then Billy’s slicking his hand up with spit, imagining Steve’s mouth around him, wet and warm, and his hips are lifting off the bed to thrust into his fist, breath coming out in sharp sporadic pants, and he’s… he

he just

he can’t fucking _come._

His hand falls away, useless, head thumping on the pillows with a loud theatrical groan, his cock already soft against his thigh.

Seven months. That was the closest he’s come to an orgasm in seven fucking months.

The last time he jerked off to completion was last June, and he might’ve even been thinking about Karen Wheeler, or simply just the thrill of bedding an older woman, and if it were an option Billy would happily blink that memory from mind considering the spectacularly disastrous events which followed. 

Not that forgetting would do him an awful lot of good; with or without his memories his body still received a wrecking and after eighteen days in an induced coma, a further twenty-one on life support, Billy didn’t really have time to think about his cock or the lack of attention it was receiving. His sex drive all but disappeared somewhere between the surgeries and catheters and morphine, and a dislocated hip and nerve-damaged hands had him more concerned about whether he would walk and write again, and re-learning to do so was exhausting and time-consuming.

And then the weeks following his return home saw him mostly house-bound, reliant on assistance for the most basic of tasks, and days where the pain was so debilitating he would readily suffer the disapproving frowns and demands to _man up_ from his dad as he reached for his pain pills. 

He was in a pretty bad head-space back then, gripped by too many emotions and restricted to only a handful of distractions; too sad to masturbate and who the hell was gonna want Billy with his nasty scars and fluctuating moods anyway?

Steve Harrington, apparently.

What a dumbass.

And that’s when this little problem made itself known.

He wasn’t too panicked at first, he figured that it just needed some _waking up_ after so much time out of action, so he stirred up some of his favourite mental-images and pounded his meat like he was trying to start a bush-fire on his pubes, but after a month of no success he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t an issue anymore, especially as Steve’s touches are becoming bolder all the time. Last week in a rare moment of alone time they parked out at the quarry and it was dark and fucking _cold_ when they tumbled into the back seat of Steve’s beemer, leather squeaking underneath their asses, mouths hungry and moving in sync, hands eagerly roaming—over clothes, under clothes—Steve’s fingers gently skimming over the threads of web-like scars marring his torso, leaving goosebumps in his wake. His mouth attached itself to Billy’s neck, licking and sucking over his pulse, and Billy was so lost in the sensation he didn’t feel Steve’s hand creeping down over his crotch until he began grappling with his belt, and Billy jumped as if burned, snatching his wrist away and jerking his hips back.

He saved his ass by muttering a husky _‘let me…’_ into his ear and maneuvered them so he was looming on top, and Steve went willingly, flopping onto his back, reduced to weak cries and breathy moans as Billy expertly worked his hand over his cock, kissing him fiercely as he brought him to climax.

He let Steve think he’d come in his pants to avoid telling him the truth.

Occasionally he feels a familiar tingle, a hot swell pulsing deep and low, and he thinks _maybe I’m not broken after all_ … and then it always ends the same; with heavy frustrated breathing, carpal tunnel aching in his wrist, and the mental images of Steve riding him still blinking in the back of his mind even as his cock sags lifelessly.

It’s a pretty cruel fucking joke if you ask him. Steve can’t pick him up and twirl him around in public like he’s Nancy Wheeler, or present him with a bouquet of flowers in a restaurant _even_ _as a joke_ like he’s Robin Buckley. And now Billy Hargrove isn’t even good for a fuck anymore.

An ominous little voice at the back of his brain tries to persuade him that this is simply punishment for all the meaningless sex and the girls he stringed along to get it. Retribution for trying to insert his dick into Karen Wheeler’s marriage for no other reason than because he _could_ —

He finally gets the guy who’s guest-starred in a great deal of his steamier and self-indulgent fantasies and he’s cursed with limp dick. Some might say its karma and some days Billy might even agree.

The bottles filled with pills in his bedside drawer appear to prove otherwise. 

Billy got prescribed all the good stuff. Opioids for pain-relief, diazepam for anxiety, and fluoxetine, his antidepressant, the stuff that makes his brain release the happy chemicals or some other bullshit which his doctor explained and Billy only half-listened to with a scrutinizing ear. He got the gist of it. Take as prescribed, don’t overdose, and expect a few side-effects. Headaches, drowsiness, a little sickness here and there, but they make him feel like he’s not _dying_ all the time and that’s the important bit really.

He finds the answer—the answer, not the solution—to his problem on the leaflet that came with his prescription, something he admittedly should have read sooner, and it’s a painful task picking it up and confirming what he had already begun to suspect but didn’t want to believe. 

**‘Common side effects include nausea, headache, insomnia, fatigue... Other common side effects include restlessness, strange dreams, dizziness, loss of appetite, confusion, weight-gain, _impotence…’_**

Billy scrubs his hand over his face.

‘Yep, the world sure loves fucking with him. Dropping Steve and a shot at happiness into his lap in and then taking away the use of his favourite organ in exchange.

He rotates the bottle of prozac in his hand—the most likely culprit of the three since it’s the only one he takes daily and he’s never missed a dose—and considers the worst possibilities if he were to...skip a day, or maybe a week. It’s not like his meds _cure_ him or anything, he still has days where he feels like a deflated balloon, where it takes every ounce of strength he has just to drag himself to the bathroom, but he’s survived every one of them because he has _people_ now. A real sister, friends, a _boyfriend_. All reminding him he’s not alone and that there are good things in his life. They’re the ones who give him purpose and motivation to keep on trying. 

And the prospect of finally getting the opportunity to have his way with Steve—Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington. King Steve. _His_ Steve—is a damn solid reason to get out of bed in Billy’s opinion.

He reads the pamphlet twice over, a little apprehensive about the potential withdrawal symptoms, none of which sound particularly fun, but… it also feels like nothing. Not after the hellish year he’s had. Headaches. Nausea. He’s already dealt with all that. 

He drops the pills back in his drawer and shuts it firmly.

_It’s only eight days_. Just until Valentine’s. He’s got to at least try for Steve.

*

Billy makes it over forty-eight hours and he’s… feeling pretty good actually.

Good enough to have a little play-around downstairs and he gives himself a pat on the back when he manages to spring a semi within a couple of minutes.

He doesn’t get any further with it, but still, there’s time yet.

And then later that night he closes his eyes and sleep has never felt so fucking far away. He tosses and turns, kicking away his sheets when his temperature suddenly spikes and dragging them back over his body when chills erupt across his skin, and in the strange, hollow silences between his writhing he stares blindly into the dark, eyes twitching and following shapes he knows aren’t really there; the meaningless _tick-tick_ from his wristwatch left on the bedside table accentuates the stillness, and he counts down the seconds, the minutes and the hours—

An ice age passes before the shadows begin to lift and Billy is awake for all of it.

Max kindly informs him he looks like shit when he eventually manages to drag his lifeless body out of bed. 

The shivers persist, growing in frequency and strength, and his palms feel sticky and clammy but he keeps rubbing them over his face and through his hair anyway until his skin is left oily and flushed. He paces restlessly, slightly fucking paranoid and chewing his nails down to tiny sore stubs. At no point does he feel the slightest hint of arousal or desire to touch himself. In fact the thought alone disgusts him. His body disgusts him. He can work out all he wants but he’s never going to get back his previous form. His scars will remain pretty and prominent regardless and Billy starts to wonder why the fuck Steve would want _any_ part of this repulsive wreck of a body in the first—

_Fuck no, bad thoughts—five days to go_

An hour before his shift is due to start on Monday he calls Mick at the record store, hands shaky around the phone, and rambles about having caught the flu, apologising profusely— _sorry, just not good right now,_ _sorry for the short notice, it won’t happen again—_ until Mick cuts over him, tells him not to worry, to take Wednesday off too if he needs it and Billy near sobs as he hangs up, the sheer relief of not being yelled at overflowing through his eyes.

It holds down his anxiety for a little while, knowing he doesn’t have to go out like this, but it begins to climb again when the house comes to life and doors are opening and closing and voices are chattering back and forth and Susan is making dinner he doesn’t have an appetite to eat and he feels like Neil’s eyes are following him through the walls.

His bladder can’t seem to hold anything for longer than twenty minutes and after he goes for his sixth piss in the space of two hours he winds up trapped in the bathroom ‘cause he doesn’t want to walk back past the lounge to his room. Neil is freaking him out. Susan is freaking him out. The bright glare of the TV is freaking him out.

The knocking on the bathroom door is freaking him out.

“Billy?”

It’s Max. 

“Billy you’ve been in there for over half an hour are you okay?” she’s saying quietly, and Billy looks in the mirror and some weird deranged fucker looks back at him. He turns away cringing and stuffs his fist in his mouth, gnawing at his knuckles.

“Billy, please answer me…” Max voice comes drifting in, voice turning desperate and pleading, and he panics because she’s _not safe_ out there but it doesn’t feel particularly fucking safe in here either...

He unlocks the door and steps back, eyes on hinges and hands raking through his hair, and slowly the door cracks open and Max pokes her head around, a wordless question forming on her face as she takes in his dishevelled appearance: hands on his face, fingers blocking his peripheral and tunnelling his vision directly to her.

“Max, I’m freaking out.” 

Her eyes widen. “Jesus. Okay.”

She slips inside, shuts the bathroom door, and takes careful, practised steps towards him, a look of both concern and hard resolve settled on her face, and she gently grips his forearms and steers him backwards to sit him on the toilet. His legs buckle immediately and he wonders just how on earth they were keeping him standing in the first place. His knees jitter and bounce as he tries to bring pull himself together, air too cold and tight in his lungs, and he feels Max’s hands on his legs, squeezing in intervals, kneading into the muscle of his calves—his own little anchor to reality.

“Are you with me?” she whispers and Billy nods, head cupped in his hands, expression contorted, and he slurs, _“...I’m here…”_ but he’s not sure for how long, something just feels incredibly _wrong_ and it’s closing in on him and every breath he draws makes his chest shudder and he just wants it all to _go away_.

“Have you taken any pills?” Max asks unsurely, beginning to rub circles on his shins with her thumbs.

He licks his lips. “Not since Thursday.”

“Billy... _why?”_ and she shakes her head before he can answer, “nevermind. Where are they?”

“Top drawer,” he croaks, closing his eyes and focusing on breathing, “next to my bed.” And she dashes off, light footsteps disappearing through the house, and he remembers there’s some condoms in his top drawer as well but fuck it, she’s gonna have to look at them because he feels like something terrible is gonna happen if he leaves the bathroom right now, like something’s out there waiting for him, prowling the perimeter. It might be Neil. He hasn’t fucked with Billy since before his ‘accident’, maybe times up, maybe he’s sick of his weak, feeble son free-loading off his back. _Stop it_ , he thinks, scratching his stubby nails over his scalp. He flinches when the door creaks and Max comes shuffling back with a glass of water and two pill bottles.

She pushes the glass into his hand, waits till she’s sure he has it in his grip before she lets go, and begins uncapping the bottles. Valium. Prozac. She’s fairly well acquainted with them by now.

She tips one of each into her hand. “Here.” And Billy doesn’t need telling twice, chugging them back with the water.

It gets a bit hazy after that but he hears Max telling their parents he’s not feeling well and Billy doesn’t even care when Neil scoffs at him as Max guides him to his room. He remembers patting her head sleepily and calling her a _good egg_ , and she might’ve tearfully called him _dumbass_ but he was well on his way out by then.

Steve calls late morning the next day when Billy has the house to himself and he lets the phone by his bed ring eleven times before he answers because only Steve would know it often takes him a while to come round.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Billy greets weakly.

“You okay? You sound tired?”

“Yeah, tired,” he agrees, eyes roaming around his room, just enough sunlight peeking through his curtains to reveal the mess of dirty clothes strewn across the floor and cast gloomy shadows over his bed.

“So I was wondering if you wanna grab something to eat later? I finish at three.”

“Mmmhh, I’m not really…” he pauses, swallows and blinks his eyes, “hungry… m’tired.”

“You want me to swing by?”

“No, I… I’m just… not a good day,” he finishes lamely, rubbing his cheek against his pillow, content at least knowing that Steve will understand. Somehow he always understands.

“Hey... if you’re not feeling it up to it we can cancel for Friday—”

“No!” Billy interrupts quickly, squeezing his eyes shut because, Jesus, there’s _understanding_ but where the fuck does Steve get off on being so _nice_ all the damn time? Billy wants to do something nice for a change. “No,” he repeats, quieter, “I’ll be there. I’ll come…”

“Okay. I--I’m looking forward to it,” and Billy can hear the way his mouth curves into a smile as he speaks. “You got a preference for movies?”

“Anything you want, princess.”

“Oh, you’re gonna regret saying that,” he chortles and… a short silence hangs, the soft crackle of Steve's breath blowing against the receiver, before he asks, “...you want to go back to sleep?”

“No…” Billy says, his lips parting wetly, and he sniffs. “Talk to me…”

“Oh, well, where the fuck do I start? I had the _worst_ customer yesterday. Point blank refused to pay the late fee even though she was _clearly_ two days overdue and I had the receipt to prove it; kept saying I was _'such a rude young man!'"_ He makes his voice go high and croaky like an old woman and Billy smothers his laughs into his pillow. "She said _I_ had my dates mixed up and apparently our calendar is _wrong_. I was like, _bitch, are you serious?_ ‘Cept I didn’t really say that. I had to send Robin out to deal with her in the end." He sighs grumpily. "And Keith’s back. He looks like he was down with the plague. Probably shouldn't have admitted that to his face because now he hates me more than ever. I'm never gonna get employee of the month…"

"I could take care of him for you," Billy offers, voice sluggish, "stab ‘im in the face?"

Steve gives a sharp bark of laughter, "bit tame for you that isn’t it?"

Billy hums, twirling the cord around his finger thoughtfully, and then corrects himself, "cut his legs off, whittle down the bone and use that to stab him in the face."

“Aw babe you’re so sweet.”

*

Billy takes his Prozac and when his head levels out he goes to the library, chin tucked into his chest and shoulders by his ears as he shuffles along the stacks of shelves, ashamed and point-blank refusing to even consider asking Marissa, the bespectacled librarian, for assistance, and he lands in front on the health and well-being section, locating the smaller sub-category for sexual health and pulling books out at random until he thumbs across a chapter with the title _Erectile Dysfunction_ in thick, blocky letters.

His face is aflame as he skims over the short introduction and causes and skips straight to treatment, which only directs him to seek professional medical advice and pills can be prescribed.

Except Billy hasn’t got time to call up his doctor and make an appointment and have a lengthy discussion about his flagging penis because it’s Valentine’s day _tomorrow_ and Steve Harrington plans to whisk him into his bed and fuck fuck _fuck_

_Fuck_ his life.

After forty minutes of digging he eventually finds a small article on heart-healthy foods that _allegedly_ lessens the symptoms of ED and impotence and he hastily grabs a pen and paper and makes a list. Oysters. Billy doesn’t know where the fuck to get oysters and _jesus christ_ they look fucking disgusting anyway, he crosses that off but adds watermelon and dark-chocolate, coffee too, all things he can tolerate perfectly well.

With a few options to choose from he heads to the grocery and crafts an emergency twenty-four hour meal plan, setting to work in the kitchen with the radio playing in the background.

“You’re cooking fish?” Max comments when she comes home from school, scrunching up her nose at the smell that wafts through the house. Billy shrugs noncommittedly and checks the salmon on the grill. He’s actually not the biggest fan of fish and he’s certainly never cooked it before, but desperate times you know?

He hears the grocery bags left on the table rustling and he can picture the look on her face when she asks, “what the hell have you been buying?”

“Food.” He deadpans, because even though Billy shares a _lot_ with Max these days, he isn’t quite prepared to discuss his penis problems with her. That would be a traumatising conversation for both of them. “Just trying something new.”

Substitute red meat for fish. Almonds and cashews for snacks. Eat an entire fucking watermelon for breakfast and moderate the coffee intake because it messes with his bowels and that could get unpleasant when there’s potentially butt sex to be had.

He’s got this _covered_.

“You seem to have perked up,” Max says airily.

_Something better be perking up._

*

Despite sticking to his ‘diet’ and abstaining from smoking a single cigarette, _nothing_ perks up.

V-day is here and he’s making out with Steve on the couch in his living room and he hasn’t felt as much as a twitch in his pants yet.

The final credits to _Stripes_ are rolling on the TV in the background, the last half of the movie lost when Steve’s hand slipped beneath Billy’s shirt, feather-light touches from the pads of his fingers ghosted over his stomach and Billy’s resolve crumbed and his lips sought out Steve’s.

And Steve is a fucking talented kisser. A perfect blend of slow and sensual—dragging deep reverberating moans from the hollow of his throat—and quick teasing nips that have Billy chasing for more. His lips are smooth and soft, as expected of a rich pretty boy, moving against his own in perfect harmony, and his tongue glides its way inside of Billy’s mouth like it belongs there. He keeps his hands roaming safely above the waist, carding through Billy’s hair and kneading the back of his neck, and if this was all the evening promised then Billy would be content to bask in it forever. Just Steve's soft hair between his fingers and the taste of his lips.

But it escalates, of course it does, and Steve’s caresses grow firmer, more feverish, and Billy’s chest is stuttering on crumbling butterfly wings, and Steve mistakes his breathy gasps and pulls back just enough to murmur, _“you wanna take this upstairs_ ” and Billy screams internally. He almost trips on the stairs, mild-panic where there should be lust streaming through his veins, and he stares almost enviously at the pronounced outline of Steve’s hard length through his jeans. 

Steve walks backwards, pulling him down the hall with his hands and lips, and Billy tries to focus on his touch, steady and supple, and his eyes—deep, dark and stirring with greed and promise—and Billy he wants to witness them blown wide and unseeing, wants Steve’s body clenching and writhing under his ministrations—wants it so bad it _aches._

They stumble inside of Steve's room, breaking apart long enough for Billy to note he has obviously tidied for the occasion, loose clothes and books stored in the closet or kicked out of sight, but there are no rose petals on his bed and Billy breathes a quiet sigh of relief. He honestly wouldn’t have put it past him; not only is he a romantic but he also has a dreadful sense of humor and seems to get a perverse thrill out of watching Billy flush and squirm.

“Hey,” Steve says, face appearing right before Billy’s, his hand coming up to lightly tug on that one lock of hair coiling over his forehead and watching it bounce back into shape.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

_My dick doesn’t work._

“Great.” He smiles and pulls Steve in for another kiss before he can watch it fall.

Steve cups the back of his head, the flat of his other palm sliding over his collar bone, pushing his shirt—already half-unbuttoned—aside, and groping at his pecs. _“God you’re so hot_ ,” he whispers, breathy and desperate, and Billy _gasps_ , body jerking when a surge of heat rushes south and Steve gets to work on shedding his shirt, fumbling with the remaining buttons until it hangs loose and slips down one shoulder.

He doesn't give him a second to feel self-conscious about his scars, lips latching onto his shoulder, leaving a trail of hot wet kisses cooling down his neck and chest, flicking his tongue over braised and sensitive skin, and Billy moans, eyes flickering shut in bliss and hands grasping at Steve's hair, sliding wantonly down his spine to the hem of his polo shirt, seizing and dragging it up. Steve pulls away, helping him yank it over his head and tossing it to the floor carelessly, hands coming back to finish pushing Billy's shirt off his shoulders.

They fall onto the bed, half naked and still kissing, limbs tangled and his thigh brushes against Steve’s cock, feels the warmth of it even through their jeans, and Steve tips his head back, _moans,_ loud and shameless, and Billy’s lips latch onto his pale throat, licking over his moles and leaving tiny indentations with his teeth.

“Yeah?” Billy hums, palming over his cock, and _fuck_ , he’s ridiculously big; Billy’s mouth waters, hands instinctively going for his zip and Steve lifts his hips, wiggling out of his jeans, and revealing white briefs that cling to his skin and only accentuate his size. 

He stares, mesmerized, taking in the expanse of pale flesh, hair fanned out over the pillow, eyes half-lidded and lips parted, breath coming out in short, sharp bursts—Billy has never seen anything so fucking gorgeous. And it’s torture, to have Steve laid out, a feast for his eyes; hunger scorching his veins like a relentless internal itch.

“I think you should get these off,” Steve murmurs, blinking through a haze of lust and tugging on his belt-loops suggestively, and Billy's heart skips, muscles bulging as his body tenses, and cheeks flame hot and red.

Steve—who somehow has not noticed the lack of tenting in his jeans—seemingly misreads his reaction and uses the pause to take leadership, swiping his thumb over the dark blonde fuzz below his navel, languidly easing down his zip, and the assertive smile that breaks over his lips takes Billy’s breath away before the kiss can, and he’s _helpless_ , succumbed to Steve’s taste, his jeans slipping low, down his hips, and—

He abruptly turns his face away.

“Billy what—?"

Billy shakes his head, breathing heavily. 

"Just…” he inhales sharply and grinds his teeth, desperately wishing he could stream the blood from his face into his dick. “Just give me a sec…”

“Are you alright?” Steve asks unsurely, and when he looks up Billy mentally curses because now Steve is worried, arousal wiped clear from his face, tension building on his brow. He pushes away from the sheets, bracing himself on his elbow, and reaches out to cup Billy’s bicep.

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready…” And Billy _laughs_ —a short, broken noise devoid of any humor tearing from his throat—because he couldn’t be more _wrong_ and Billy feels shame pulsing in his cheeks, keeping them pink and glowing.

“Listen…" he croaks, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, "it’s not you—”

Wrong choice of words to start with. Steve immediately goes rigid, his body tensing like he’s been submerged in ice water, an almost inaudible gasp slicing past his lips, something old and _haunted_ clouds in his eyes right before his whole face closes off.

Panicked and failing to summon up the right words, Billy hastily kicks his jeans the rest of the way off, swallows down the dregs of his dignity and lets his arm fall away from his lap; heart pounding as he observes the way Steve’s gaze drops towards his dick—flaccid inside his boxers.

“I can’t even get hard most of the time…” He explains shakily, hyper-focused on Steve’s face and every little twitch of muscle beneath his skin, counting the seconds he holds the breath in his lungs. “ _Seriously_ though—it’s _not you_. Trust me, I’ve jerked off thinking about you plenty before, like, at least twice a week in high school,” he rambles embarrassingly, and Steve’s eyes, wide and stunned, snap back to his. “And I think about it _all_ the time, but, I just… I _can’t_ anymore; I think it’s a side effect from…” 

He breaks off, eyes narrowing suspiciously at Steve's expression, pinched and straining with barely concealed amusement.

“…Are you _laughing?”_

Steve shakes his head frantically, blinks all innocent even as his eyes glisten deviously, and he pursues his lips to stop the corners of his mouth from twitching. 

Billy stares.

“You’re laughing at me?” He says seriously.

“I am. _So. Sorry!”_ Steve flaps and his voice breaks, an ugly snort erupting from his nose followed by a fit of wheezy giggles. Billy gapes at him.

“I am gonna punch in the fucking face right now—”

“No, no!” Steve cries, still laughing, holding his hands up in surrender and pathetically trying to contain his cackles. His shoulder shake with the effort. “I’m _relieved!_ I thought—”

“You’re _relieved_ that my dick doesn’t work?” Billy snarls sarcastically, pushing himself away, “thanks a bunch King Steve, good thing you’ve got enough dick for the both of us—”

“ _Noooooo!”_ Steve whines like a dramatic bitch, clinging onto his arm like a koala bear and tugging Billy back down when he makes to get out of bed. “Stop, listen. I just meant, I thought it was something _worse_ —” Billy snorts derisively and Steve groans, “I _mean_ … I started to think you weren’t actually that _into_ me. Y’know?”

“What the—? You fucking clown, I fucking _told you_ I wanted your dick since the moment we met?” And Steve, the shitstain, actually smirks, taking a moment to fondly recall Billy’s breathy impromptu confession, the moan in his ear detailing how he wanted to drop to his knees in the showers after basketball practise and swallow Steve’s cock ‘til he was coming down his throat.

“I know, I know,” he stresses, squeezing Billy’s biceps and running his thumb over his skin soothingly. “You said all that but whenever I tried to touch you you got all, _cagey_ , and I wondered if maybe— _maybe_ you actually preferred being friends after all, so I’d try to back off a little but then you came to the store and made out with me in the backroom for twenty minutes so…”

“Yeah sorry,” Billy mutters, dipping his head and scrunching his fingers up in the sheets, “I didn’t know how to tell you. Thought you might…”

“Might what? Break up with you?” he asks, tone incredulous. “Billy,” he says softly, and Billy flicks his eyes up, "I like _you_. If I just wanted sex then there are _far_ easier ways.” He grins at him playfully. 

“I know,” Billy breathes, shoulder sagging shamefully, “I _know._ I just—fuck, I’m not good at this relationship stuff…”

“Well first pointer,” Steve says, leaning in to kiss Billy’s temple, letting his cheek rest there for a moment, breath lightly rustling his hair, “it’s not all about sex.”

Billy’s pretty sure that’s supposed to sound reassuring and if he wasn’t already feeling rattled then it might’ve done the job, but his mind fixates on one particular word, doubt needling the back of his skull, and the coy smile on Steve’s face as he drags his gaze slowly and appreciatively over Billy’s chest fills him with a sense of dread that has his toes curling and stomach knotting.

It’s not _all_ about sex.

Billy squirms uncomfortably. “Harrington—”

"Steve.” He’s corrected with a look.

“ _Steve,”_ Billy sighs, eyes pinching shut for a second to gather his thoughts, sheets clenched in his fist. “I _want_ to, I _really_ fucking want to but.” He swallows and it feels like his throat is cramping. “You need to understand… I’m pretty sure it’s my meds that are ‘causing this. And. I—I _can’t_ stop taking them, okay? I tried and the withdrawal was—”

Steve hand shoots up to halt him. “Whoa whoa hold it right there, you stopped taking your meds?”

“For a few days. Fucking sucked.”

Steve frowns. “I really don’t think you should be doing that…”

“That's what I’m _saying_ ,” Billy stresses, releasing the sheets and throwing his hands in the air. “Apparently I’m a fucking _headcase_ without them, and for as long as I need them then _this_ might never go away...”

There’s a silence and Billy watches as Steve’s eyebrows dip, pulling tight in the middle, his eyes lower as he lets the full weight behind Billy's words sink in, and it’s like when they first got together and Steve tried to take Billy’s hand in public because he _forgot_ that they’re not a _normal_ couple, and it’s the way his face crumples a little, like he’s parting with a small piece of himself, that makes Billy feel like a piece of shit.

It’s not _all_ about sex. But it plays a role. And now it’s just one more thing Billy is asking him to sacrifice and for what? What does Steve get out of any of this?

Billy feels that drop in his stomach again. Feels hysteria bubble and itch just below his skin. He gonna get fucking dumped. On Valentines of all days and he shouldn’t care because it’s just a stupid commercial holiday, but this is _Steve_ and Steve is _good_ and considerate and he makes him laugh with his awful jokes and puts butterflies in his chest and Billy can’t give him _anything_ because he’s broken...

His internal dilemma must be breaking out onto his face because Steve reaches out, takes his hand, says, “Billy, it’s fine, I—”

“You can still fuck me,” Billy interrupts quickly, desperately—pulling Steve’s hand to his lips and placing a kiss over his knuckles, “I don’t mind,” he adds and Steve whole face blinks with shock.

“Whoa _okay_ … that’s…” he gapes stupidly for a whole five seconds, throat bobbing, "that's _extreme_. I’m not—I’m not gonna do that—”

“Steve, you’re _nineteen_ and the hottest guy in Hawkins. I don’t expect you to go celibate for _me._ "

“Yeah Billy, and you're _eighteen_ and a _person_ , not a blow up doll!" He shakes his head incredulously. "You think I’d enjoy fucking you if I knew you weren’t into it?”

“Fine I’ll _blow_ you then.” Steve pulls a face and Billy’s impatience beings to surge, integrating with his distress and triggering his temper. He snaps, “oh fuck off don’t give me that look! You’ve still got _needs_ and I’ve still got perfectly good _hands_ and a _mouth_ and yeah, my ass if you ever want it." If that’s what he has to do, if that’s what it takes to keep Steve interested then he'll do it. He swallows bitterly, a snarl heavy with self-disgust forming around his words as he bites out, “ _I_ might be _fucking broken_ but I can still get you off—”

“ _Stop!”_

Hands fly to Billy’s face, almost making him flinch, and thumbs press firmly against his lips in a desperate plea for his silence, and Steve… he looks _sad_ , remorseful; it pulls on all his features, drawing lines and shadows that Billy has seen many times on his own reflection, and the sight of it makes him wish Steve's grip was tighter, wishes he'd dig his nails into Billy's skin, rip his flesh and draw blood, make him _hurt_ like he deserves.

But Steve's not like him. Not angry or cruel or vengeful and he takes Billy's rage with too much grace, with sad, beaten down eyes and selfless understanding.

“Stop…” he repeats, quieter, and it’s like the whole world complies, the thoughts in his head converting to static, his galloping heart shuddering to a halt, and for a moment all he feels is the warmth of Steve’s palms against his cheeks. 

Steve sighs, tired and reflective, and he gently guides Billy’s face to his, ‘til their foreheads touch, and one hand slithers into his hair, grasping tightly but not painfully.

“Billy, seriously, _listen.”_

He pulls back enough to look Billy in the eyes, “I would _love_ it if you sucked my dick, for real, I cannot wait, we can set a date for that. Soon I hope. But I don’t _need_ it okay? Jesus--I. I _really_ fucking like you. I just want to be _with_ you. And… if it turns out you can’t or you _don’t want to_ … then--”

He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head like it’s a no-brainer.

“—I’m still willing to give it a shot.”

The words leave him weak, body quivering and kept upright only by Steve’s hands cupping his face and his eyes, dense and smouldering with certainty and infectious enthusiasm, and Billy feels his heart flutter back to life, feels himself levitating from the surge of revived butterflies soaring inside his chest—thousands of tiny petal-like wings skimming his sternum, spiralling chaotically up in throat, tingling through his nose and

and his fucking chin starts wobbling.

It's humiliating and the worst part is that Billy knows he only cries pretty for about five seconds before he starts getting all red and snotty and blubbery, and—regardless of how many people have seen him get like this and insist that it's _okay—_ he instinctively tries to resist it, face contorting like he’s trying to hold in a sneeze.

But Steve's eyes grow impossibly soft, smile opening up like the heavens and Billy instantly crumbles, hiccupping on a sob, exhilaration and _relief_ flooding to his eyes, and he squeezes them shut as Steve kisses his face, and when the tears soak through his lashes and drip down his cheeks Steve kisses those too. 

He’s pliant when Steve takes them down to the pillows and sheets, folding willingly into his embrace, Steve’s lips pressed against his forehead, his contented sigh breezing through Billy's hairline. It’s been years since someone held him like this, years since he felt safe and cared for, and all the stress that’s coiled tight in his belly unwinds and exits his body with a shuddering gasp. His face, damp with tears and snot, buries itself in Steve's neck, arms cramped awkwardly between their bodies, hands splayed over Steve's chest as if he could reach inside and wrap his fist around his heart. 

“You’re not by the way,” Steve murmurs and Billy can feel the words vibrate in his chest. “Broken I mean.”

The arm thrown over his side squeezes reassuringly, the smooth brush of fingers trailing delicately up and down his spine eases away his anxiety ‘til Billy's face begins to dry and exhaustion settles into his bones.

“You know, I almost didn’t come to visit you at the hospital,” Steve says thoughtfully after a while, his voice buzzing quietly and Billy watches the way his throat bobs as he swallows, “I didn’t… I thought you wouldn’t want to see _me_ of all people, but Max and El made this big show of how we should all be grateful because you nearly died saving our asses,” he laughs through his nose, tickling Billy’s forehead, “they’re kind of scary when they’re together, I don’t think they would have let anyone say no.”

Billy snorts wetly, and because he’s gross he wipes his nose on Steve’s pillowcase. "Fucking terrors those two," he mutters, unable to count the number of times he woke up in hospital with those two besides him and his hair in plaits. Shamelessly waiting ‘til he was high on meds and futile to resist when they started painting his nails (toenails included, Max said his feet were ugly).

“I’m so glad that I did though,” Steve continues in a voice so low it almost sounds like a hum. Billy feels his lips press against his forehead and his eyes flutter shut with a soft sigh. “I’m glad you let me come back. And that you wanted to be my friend afterwards.

“And, I’m so, _so_ _glad_ you tried to hit on Robin,” he finishes gleefully and Billy fucking _groans_. He buries his face in the crock of Steve’s neck and feels his chest rattling with laughter again.

“ _Steeeeve_.”

“I’m sorry!” Steve says, clearly not sorry at all, and he pats Billy’s head sympathetically, “but it was fucking hilarious. Looking back I mean.”

“Hilarious for you,” Billy mumbles sulkily, his face burning as that particularly mortifying memory resurfaces. He was in the hospital, high as fuck, and Robin was sat closest and she kept staring at the bandage over his chest and Billy’s sleepy, drug-addled brain concluded that she was checking him out, so he voiced a rather embarrassing invitation for her to ‘ _have a touch’_ if she wanted, and he remembers the crooked, amused smile she gave him and the way she patted his hand condescendingly, saying, _‘you’re barking up the wrong tree, sweetie._ ’

Billy had snorted, and then—without an ounce of discretion or shame—he loudly announced to a room on onlookers that he preferred his _‘trees with cocks anyway’_ before dissolving into a fit of giggles. 

He kind of wanted to kill himself the minute he sobered up but Max managed to talk him down, promised him it wasn’t a big deal and wouldn’t be shared outside their circle, and aside from Hopper ordering him to never talk about cocks in front of his daughter again, the topic was never directly broached until months later when there was snow in the air and Christmas lights twinkling above his head, and Steve asked him if he was seriously attracted to men and Billy uttered a quiet _yes_ while avoiding his eyes.

Steve kissed him two weeks after that.

“Honestly though I don’t think I would’ve dared make a move if you hadn't slipped up,” Steve says as if following his train of thought, stroking his hand down Billy’s hair to rub his neck soothingly. He kisses Billy’s head again, mumbles against his skin, “so fucking glad you’re a dumbass like me.”

Billy pouts at the comment, but Steve simply swoops in to suck on his lip, dragging it between his teeth, and Billy lets him have his victorious smirk, shamelessly chasing for more until his heart doesn't feel like it might float away from him anymore.

“You’ve got a shitty sense of humor,” Billy mutters, pinching the skin on the back of Steve’s shoulder before relaxing into a sigh, “but if you keep talking like this you’re gonna turn me soft, Steve Harrington.”

“...Billy…” Steve says slowly, stilted glee cracking in his voice, and Billy knows something downright _terrible_ is about to pour out of his mouth judging by the shit-eating grin splitting his face apart.

And Steve never likes to disappoint.

“You’re already _soft_ …” he whispers dramatically, eyes bulging and motioning pointedly towards Billy’s cock— _hilarious_ —and he looks so fucking _pleased_ with himself.

He’s still cackling when Billy attempts to smother him with a pillow.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Apparently Prozac wasn't released to the US market until the late 80s but we're just gonna ignore that.
> 
> I've had this idea stuck in my head for months and it's good to finally get it out! Please tell me what you think xo


End file.
